These Hands
by wahinetoa
Summary: Gambit/Storm. Remy discovers more to himself through near tragedy, and therein, the woman who has always been there.


These Hands  
by Wahinetoa  
Disclaimer: All owned by Marvel, I own nothing but the choc nut bar   
in my pocket. Sue me, and that's all you get. Sorry.  
Dedicated: To all my wonderful kids at Gambit&Storm club, Momma Funk and   
the talented writers there. Especially AJ and Chilli who inspired the  
writing with their wonderful works.   
  
Authors note: This is my first Storm/Gambit story. It's unbeta'd, so please  
forgive the mistakes. Thank you kindly.  
  
  
  
~~~~  
Tonight I cried the tears of a child  
Who knows what fear runs deep and wild  
Inside  
But the river's in flood tonight  
~~~~  
Darkness.  
  
The perfect destination for his life. Born into it, bled by it and  
now?, - buried in it. He knew what brought him to this point, and he  
savagely slammed it behind his shields.   
  
It had been several weeks since Rogue had revealed to the other Xmen his  
own part in the Morlocks death. Then she left the mansion with Bobby and  
never looked back. Remy dove into the nearest bar, and tore himself  
apart. Night after drunken night. Only staggering home in the early  
morning hours.  
  
Ororo tended her garden in the early dawning, and witnessed Remys less  
than charming arrivals, with consternation.  
  
In the end, she could not hold her worries from him. There was a  
confrontation, in the middle of the grounds and she had slapped him.  
Balling his fists, his eyes stinging with anger and tears, he growled  
out a threat to stay away, then turned his back on her. Something he had  
never done before, and shuddered as he did so. She was mortified  
she had slapped him - she would never do this. Never.   
  
Why she had acted so rashly? She had found herself so drawn to him of  
late. Whether it was because of their shared deep bond as thieves, or  
the one they shared as best friends since Remy had saved her all those  
years ago from The nanny, and then the Hounds; or maybe perhaps because  
there always seemed something so much more between them, she was not  
sure. But even as he was hurting, he'd come to her and she to him. It  
was natural. It was right.  
  
Except this time. He was pulling away. From her. From the Xmen. From  
everything. And it was killing her. Remy was her heart, whether she  
admitted to it or not. This confrontation was in plea and desperation to  
gather him back from the edge of the abyss, and thereby save her own  
heart from dying with him.   
  
As he turned to stalk away from her - she had lost and let herself fall  
to her knees. Perhaps the sorrow in her face and eyes, blinded her to  
the coiled serpent placed by the nanny in the fauna she so loving  
tended, that she didnot see until it struck.   
  
Remy had heard her cry out in alarm and swivelled back. By the time he  
had sobered up enough to charge the card to full strength - it was too  
late. Ororo Nunroe was not breathing.  
  
Almost before he crashed through the front doors screaming for Hank,  
Ororo Monroe began to age backwards. It was the same as before. Only  
this time it was her mind... or so they thought. Hank had managed to mix  
a serum to still the mental deterioration, but in the process, her body  
soon followed the cerebral cortex operations and aged back too.  
  
Remy had blamed himself for this attack on her. He and Jean had kept  
constant vigil - the other xmen thought it guilt. And truth it was part  
of it, but not all. Only Jean saw it in the Cajuns face, many days Storm  
lay unconscious. Jean had spent hours on one side of her bed clasping  
one hand on one side, and Remy holding Stormys left hand on the other.   
  
Jean recognized so many emotions that he wore, she doubted she could  
name them all. Guilt. Shame. Desperate love. Love of someone who knew -  
that this was the moment that everyone spends everyday of his or her  
lives searching for. He couldn't find it with Rogue, no matter how much  
they wanted it to work. And Ororo couldn't find it with Forge, no matter  
how hard she tried. But maybe if they'd get over the guilt they carried,  
they could find it together. Their soulmates. Their true loves. Right  
now. With each other.  
  
The sorrow was replaced by the poise and bravery of a man on a quest for  
life. Ororo's life. And part, there in - for his own.  
  
The last time Storm awoke, she was 21 - body and mind. Hank said that  
Ororo would age normally from then, but he would keep an eye on her just  
in case.   
  
Remy being Remy, looked on the "just in case" as fatality. He went  
insane with guilt, using his hands as the scalpel. Bar-brawls, all night  
drinking - far worse than before. Maybe because this time - he had far  
more to loose.  
  
A week later.  
  
He wants a drink. Something dark and illegal. Bourbon poured into a  
glass the size of Canada. Something to numb and make unconscious...  
he thinks madly. Remy knew she was there  
- debating on the threshold whether she should come in or not. How many  
nights had he spent at her door, debating the same thing?  
  
Nononono. Don't go there. The liberated 100year old bottle of Highlander  
whiskey from Charles secret hoard, tips again, versed by unsteady,  
bloody hands. At least these hands were good for something. Not that  
there is drink or poison enough to sustain this wish. Nor it seems the  
quiet to do it in.  
  
Outside, her footfalls cease. He hears her rock back and forth on her  
heels and slowly the door begins to open. Next time he'll lock the  
door.. not that, that would stop her or the things he was feeling. He is  
so finely attune to her, that even when he's half-blitz out of his mind  
- he senses her as infinitely as his own heartbeat. He dragged his mouth  
away from the neck of the bottle with a hiss. These thoughts were  
dangerous   
  
~~~  
I lay down and the light streamed across my face  
I felt the beauty of some deeper grace  
And I tried  
To find my way to the other side  
~~~  
  
She is framed by the doorway, the light behind her, illuminating and  
bathing her in a splendid golden glow. To normal eyes, after so many  
days in the darkness, the discomfort of that light, would be short  
lived. But to his red on black oculus, the agony took all other senses  
from him. This allowed his gruff protest to go unsaid, and she came in  
without rebuff. Darkness quickly returns as she softly closes his  
bedroom door again.  
  
"Don wan' ta talk about it." Remy snapped, a little more harshly than he  
intended, due to the fact she had got past his barbed-wire defenses. She  
had that way about it.  
  
Storm bit back the obvious hurt from his tone, and crossed the room.  
  
"Remy.." her voice was soft, gentle and chiding. He clenched his jaw,  
shook his head in vigorous denial, saying the words more slower and with  
the conviction he could muster.  
  
"Don' wan' ta talk about it, Stormy."  
  
By this time, she has found her way past the jagged glass maze to his  
bed. She sits at the other end of the bed - choking back her fears of  
closed spaces. She has to do this. Wasn't it her fault he was in here in  
the first place?   
  
"Well, my friend," Ororo stated quietly, "You may not wish to speak of  
it. But I will, and what is more - you will hear me this time." She  
waited for protest, but none came. With her own sensitive eyesight, she  
could see his ghostly form in the dimness of his room. He sat with his  
knees drawn tightly against his chest, his arms wrapped around his legs,  
his face shrouded by unspent tears and grief. She faltered, seeing him  
like this was killing her - if that was beyond more possible.   
  
His hands were testament to the punishment he suffered by his own memory  
of that fateful day. Bruised and broken.  
  
Her life changed when she witnessed his destruction over Rogue, and then  
again over her. She had nearly lost him - and that was one heck of an  
eye-opener. Wasn't it strange that you find love, in the palm of your  
hand? She sighed despite herself. What a time to be thinking of such  
things!  
  
"Remy," Her voice came to him again. So sad and quietly, that at first  
he thought he had imagined it. Slowly he raised his eyes to meet, in the  
still quiet dark, her blue cat eyes. "It was not your fault, my friend."  
  
Remy winces. Friend. As in "just friends" or "Never be more than.." She  
couldn't have been more cruel. Her voice continues. "Most women desire  
to be 19 again, and perhaps this time I can keep out of trouble."   
  
Remy ignored the hint of mirth. She was healthy and would be fine. He  
knew that. He did. It still did not erase his memory of her lying still  
in his arms. Of how close he came to loosing her. And when she had  
emerged from coma as a 19 year old woman, so vital, beautiful and young,  
his heart seized. 19 to his 25. She was too young for him to confess his  
feelings. She would always be too young.  
  
He could never speak of it. She might as well be 13 again as when they  
first met, for the all the good it did. Even now, with her so close to  
him, speaking with the soul and spirit of the woman he loved, from the  
sensual body of a teenager, he could not help his physical attraction..  
and his soulbond exsistance to her.   
  
Her obvious need to ease the tension, only added to his own. Why must  
she always find the courage... only when he has lost his? "Not  
what I remember, Stormy. You came so close ta dyin' and I couldn' even  
hang on ta you. Damn hands.. useless hands."   
  
As if to illustrate his point, Remy cruelly slammed his palms  
into the broken glass on the floor, so quickly, that Storm could only  
cry out as she dove across the bed to stop him. The momentum of her  
dive, made both go tumbling back, Storm ontop of him. He gasped as her  
body crushed his. Her long limbs tangling around his shoulders and  
waist, bringing forth an instant flash heat of desire for a moment both  
were stunned. But, if not for Storms agility to pull him up  
and place him on the bed with a small gust - he would have suffered much  
more, so close to discovering his deepest secret.  
  
He desired her. He loved her. Ages be damned.  
  
He sat despondent, his face downcast looking once again to his empty  
broken hands - only now, being tended, filled and healed by another set  
of unseen hands. Hands of someone he loved - and who, impossibly, loved  
him back.  
  
~~~  
I feel your skin as smooth as silk  
Drunk like a baby on his mama's milk  
Take me down under the wishing tree  
Lay your healing hands on me  
~~~  
A little shocked by the suddenness of her touch, he continues to watch;  
her fingers tangled in his own - revealing the wounds and cleaning them  
with the hem of her dress. He wanted so much more, but needed to hold  
back afraid that she would disappear.   
  
The awareness of her and the sight of her, brought a thousand different  
memories to mind. Somewhere down the line the definition of his  
existence changed. Friendship and love raged against him, offering up  
his soul to the temporary pyre.   
  
He regarded his large and clumsy hands, marked with the long hours and  
hard life he had borne alone, for so many desperate years. Over the  
years, they were hands that had known loss and great fortune. Understood  
the power, deftness and agility they wielded in the guild, and felt the  
weakness of that power under the fates whim. Knew their shelter and  
forgiveness in the xmen. Their cruelty and revenge under Sinister. But  
within the shelter of her own, they were never so beautiful, so brave or  
right.   
  
Her noble hands never cease their gentle dance as she speaks. Speaking  
of their times together, of their friendship and love - he knows she is  
babbling of anything to keep her from thinking about how hurt he is, or  
the sealed room. She closes the silence in her voice and drives his  
fears away. Tending and giving life. He'd never really seen her hands  
before.. not until this moment. They are like a dancers hands moving to  
unheard music of her love for him. Touching, healing caresses. Goddess,  
how was he so blind? These; the same hands that often he held - the  
often held him. Nightmares from her past, from his driven away by their  
touch. Softened by fingertips tracing the tears away. Running through  
each others hair like a comb. Easing the tension. Making whole, just  
like she was doing right now. Stormy. HIS Stormy.  
  
He knew those hands as a child. Slid into his, curled between his  
fingers, complete trust in him as a mentor and friend. Knew  
them as a woman, that flirted or teased. Knew them as a leader - strong,  
vigilant and wise. Thankfully never knew them as a foe - gathering up  
the forces of lightening to strike him down in his tracks. He knew those  
hands as maternal - healer. Goddess. Those hands that could cradle a  
lost child, yet move heaven and earth to find this childe a home. Hands  
that also knew great loss, great anger and compassion.   
  
Hands - that spoke to him even now, with the unsaid.  
  
She did as much as she could, with the little she had. Now, her hands  
found and cradled his upturned face and with careful movements lifted  
his eyes to meet hers in the dim light. Without breaking eye contact,  
she raised his hand to her lips, and placed a kiss on the palm. Remys  
breath caught in his throat. Trust.   
  
  
Been a long time riding this deserted train  
There's no messiahs out here, baby  
But I found the holy grail all right  
'Cause I'm lying in your arms tonight  
Yeah....  
  
She reached out slowly and touched his cheek, softly tracing those well  
defined cheekbones to the stubborn clench of his jaw and back up to cup  
his cheek with her palm. She deliberatly avoided Remys succulant lips,  
fearing her fingertips would not be the only sensitive part of herself  
pressed to them in a swooning crush.  
  
She swallowed, fighting hard to focus on his needs and not her raging  
own.  
  
"If the eyes are windows to the soul, Remy, then the hands guide the  
heart." She took his two hands within her own and placed them over her  
heart. His gasp rumbled through her, making her heart beat faster. And  
Remys senstive fingertips picked up the rythmn, the soft sighs and the  
increasing warmth inside himself so close to the rounded flesh of a  
goddess.   
  
Somehow she found her own voice. Husky with the unspoken. "Remy These  
hands saved me when I was lost." She spoke quietly, the rawness of her  
affection coming to him in waves. "If not for these hands, if not for  
you - I would never be. I love them, and I love the man who yields them.  
And I cannot let you hurt them anymore, Remy. They hold my life inside  
them - you hold me."  
  
Her words. Her touch. He could no more hide from the honesty of her  
love, than he could any more deny his own. Slowly, Remy brought her  
hands to his lips and placed a kiss upon them. The action seemed to  
invoke in him a need and hunger. A multitude of kisses rained upon her  
fingers, her palms, her wrists and fingertips. These hands now laced  
with hers - were a living contrast. She completed him. Tears glittered  
on his cheek, and with absent loving, she brushed them away with one  
free hand, leaving the other happily captured within his own. Before the  
gesture was complete, he caught her hand with his and brought it to his  
lips again.   
  
His voice was husky, softly audible above his own heart-beat. "I love  
you too, Stormy."  
  
That's how he felt, with everything he was and with everything he  
had the potential to be. In reply, her fingers couldn't seem to stop  
touching him, letting her be sure of him, sure that he was there and  
with her, and that the whole night-- their whole life- hadn't been a  
dream. Remy leans into their caress, and she responds in kind. Over and  
over.  
  
Her hands never leave him, as his never leaves hers. If his hands spoke  
of his heart, then he feels by touch, what his heart knew the day she  
nearly slipped between his fingers. A joyful revelation comes.  
  
These Cajun hands. His hands   
will forever..  
belong in hers.  
  
The end. 


End file.
